Return to Grace
by Zarthor563
Summary: Post DH. Ignores Epilogue. Three years have passed since the war. Hermione teaches at Hogwarts as Draco searches for redemption. Their paths cross, and together they discover a state of grace each of them had thought impossible.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I own nothing but the plot. Please Review**

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><p>Three years have passed since the defeat of Voldemort at the hands of the Boy Who Lived. The scattered remnants of his Death Eaters are being rounded up and carted to Nurmengard. In the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, where once there stood a statue of pureblood wizards standing above and trampling those they considered beneath them, muggles, goblins, and such, there now stood erected a memorial for the Dark Lord's victims. It was the statue of a phoenix, risen from its ashes to live again. Inscribed on its base were the words, "<em>Gone, Though Never Forgotten,<em>"along with the names of all who died.

There was peace now, finally, after so long a time of living in fear.

But Hermione Granger, teacher at Hogwarts and one of the heroes of the Second Purification, knew that this was not enough. She had enough experience to know that peace was difficult to obtain, but that even more difficult a task was making that peace _last. _Voldemort might be gone, his followers leaderless and few, but there were still many witches and wizards who thought as he did. It would be all too easy for someone else to rise to the position the Dark Lord had left vacant...and all would be back to the way it had been.

In order for the peace to last, to be _real_, steps had to be taken to ensure that the atrocities committed in Voldemort's name were never repeated. The lessons of the First and Second Purifications needed to be remembered and kept sacred, the pain of loss absorbed into the collective conscience of the wizarding community. The war needed to be given substance, memory.

It needed to be written.

And that is exactly what Hermione Granger had been doing throughout her summer holiday; she was writing the histories of the First and Second Purifications, from Voldemort's rise to power, to his fall at the hands of a mere infant boy, to his final defeat by that same infant, grown into the legend that was Harry Potter...along with everything else in between.

Hermione acquired the necessary information through old Auror reports, and memories, some from wizards, some from _obliviated_ muggles. She was given all this by an extremely cooperative Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which was no doubt being leaned on by one Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was currently serving as Minister of Magic.

Hermione drew also from her own experiences, remembering with sadness the death of her friends.

Her heart beat within this book, as surely as it beat within her.

At the moment, Hermione was taking a break from her writing, choosing instead to peruse her yearbook, which she had purchased upon returning for her seventh and final year at Hogwarts. This yearbook was different from previous editions. Before, the student portraits were categorized by year and by House. In a feeble attempt to do away with House prejudices and promote inter-House unity, _this_ yearbook was done in muggle fashion, separating students by year only.

Hermione smiled as friends and old acquaintances waved at her from the pages. There was Hannah Abbot, a former Hufflepuff who was currently dating her friend, Neville. There was Terry Boot, Ernie McMillan, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood. All friends, all member of Dumbledore's Army. They had all fought that war together, forming ties so strong that they were almost family.

Hermione's smile disappeared as she reached the "M's." She didn't want to read _his_ name, or see _his_ face.

She didn't hate Draco, not really. If she were being completely honest with herself, Hermione didn't know _what_ to feel where that particular Slytherin was concerned. There were too many conflicting emotions there, too many feelings.

On the one hand, he had been a complete prat to her while at school. He always had something derogatory to say about her hair, her attire. There was that incident with her teeth in their fifth year. And of course, his favorite topic: her filthy, tainted blood. She bore his ridicule, never letting on, save for that one incident at Hagrid's second year, how much it hurt. And it _did_ hurt, a lot more than it should have.

Then, in sixth year, he became a Death Eater. He hurt innocent people in his botched attempts to murder Dumbledore.

All of this should have made Hermione hate him.

And yet...

And yet, when the time came, Draco couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Dumbledore. When she, Harry, and Ron were captured and taken to the manor, he didn't give them away. He hadn't tried to help them, either, but he had tried to protect them, in his own way.

Draco's actions confused Hermione, to the point that she became so confused about her feelings that she just became exhausted.

Her eyes find his name, only to see an empty square where his portrait should be.

_That's right,_ Hermione thought to herself. _Draco never came back for his seventh year. After the war he just...disappeared. He could be dead, for all anyone knows._ Try though she might, Hermione could not suppress the twinge of sorrow she felt at the thought.

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><p>The faint smell of burning wax drifted over to Draco, but he paid it no heed. All his attention was given to the monument before him, to the man nailed to a cross. Try though he might, he could not suppress his anger at the sight of it. The thing burned him, scorched him as surely, as hotly as the mark on his left arm.<p>

The irony of the situation did not escape him. Draco Malfoy was in a muggle church, praying to a god he'd never known _existed_, let alone _believed _in.

But what more could he do? He could not go back to the wizarding world, where the taint of his family, and his own actions would follow him forever. For the last three years, Draco had taken refuge in the muggle world. _Here_, he was faceless. _Here_, he was_ nameless_. With that anonymity, he had hoped to finally find peace.

But peace would not come to him. If anything, his nightmares had grown worse with time. The Astronomy Tower, the death of Professor Burbage, Granger's torture, it all lay squarely at his doorstep; mocking him. _Haunting _him. Because he knew the truth now.

Three years in the muggle world had shown him that he was wrong. Muggles were not inferior. They were just as intelligent, if not more so, than wizards. Their science proved it. Muggles had no magic. Yet they could fly, move across oceans, create moving pictures, heal... _live._

...And they were the only people who ever showed him an ounce of kindness.

His mind flashed back to that day in his old home. The image of Granger was seared onto his eyes as she cried and screamed through the pain... while Bellatrix carved that horrid word into her flesh, the one he himself had used to torment her at school.

Mudblood.

He was a coward, and knew it.

Still, he could not stop the question from passing his lips.

"Why?" Draco asked softly, staring at the cross. "You died for their sins; you martyred yourself so you could take them into your heart.

"Why will you not do the same for me?"

"Because you do not deserve forgiveness, Draco," a voice said. Draco turned... and saw himself.

"You caused pain for enjoyment," Malfoy continued. "Simply because it amused you. You made Granger's life, and countless others, a living hell. Now that you are finally getting your comeuppance, you pureblooded snob, you dare ask for forgiveness?

"You're pathetic."

"My son?" A voice cut through the darkness. Malfoy disappeared, leaving a priest in his place.

"Have you come for confession?" he asked.

"No," Draco replied as he lit a candle.

"You should not be afraid, child. God hears all, and forgives all."

"God does not know me." With that, Draco _obliviated _the priest, and disapparated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Please review.**

The time was fast approaching when Hermione would have to return to Hogwarts for the start of term. To that end, she had her trunk packed, her lessons outlined, and her manuscript tucked safely between her old copy of _A History of Magic_; she would spending what was left of the summer holiday with Harry and Ron at Grimmauld Place. Between her teaching and writing, Harry's duties as an Auror, and Ron helping George manage the shop, the three of them barely had time to spend together. They wrote to each other of course, but for three people who had, for the better part of their adolescence, spent every waking moment together, it wasn't the same. So whenever they found they had spare time, they spent it together.

"'Mione!" Ron crowed as she stepped out from the fireplace. She let out a laugh as they embraced and he spun her round a few times. She had missed their friendship, and was glad that it managed to survive their break-up.

"How are you, Ron?" She asked.

The Weasley shrugged. "As well as ever. The shop's doing well." His face fell a little at this, but perked up soon enough, almost as though the moment of sadness had never happened. But Hermione saw it, and understood; George still suffered. Fred's death had shattered them all, but in the three years since, they somehow managed to move on, to continue living. Hermione supposed that it was harder for George, as he was Fred's twin, and as such was perhaps closer to him than any other member of the family.

They all had scars, experiences from the war that had changed them, haunted them. Hermione herself still bore the scars of _mudblood_ on her right arm, from when Bellatrix had magically carved the word into her skin. She knew for a fact that Harry slept in Sirius' room, refusing to remove his placard from the door. Ron still bore the marks he'd gotten in the Department of Mysteries. They all had nightmares. They faded with time, but that did not take away the horror they visited when to chose to return.

They all had memories that would haunt them forever. For George, it was the death of his brother.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked, at once both curious and changing the subject.

"Oh, he's here somewhere," Ron replied, casting his eyes about the place. Placing the tip of his wand at the base of his neck (to amplify his voice), Ron yelled, "OI! HARRY! 'MIONE'S HERE!"

Sure enough, there was a loud banging on the floor above them, followed by a slew of curses. Hermione laughed. Some things never changed.

Harry eventually made it down the stairs, sporting a large welt on his forehead.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, surging forward to hug her.

"Are you all right?" she asked, gesturing to his forehead.

"It's nothing. I tripped in my hurry to get down here, and banged my head on the side of my desk."

"Maybe I should-"

"I'm _fine,_ Hermione," Harry cut her off, rolling his eyes. "You're here all of a minute and you're _already_ fussing over us."

"Spoil us rotten, she will," Ron added, a smile on his face.

"Fine, but don't expect me to heal you the next time you get hurt doing something stupid," said Hermione, remembering the time Ron and Harry had decided it would be a good idea to test out an experimental batch of Wizard Wheezes products on themselves.

"I think she's mad at me," Harry stage whispered.

"Best be careful, mate," Ron whispered back, though both of them were loud enough for her to hear. "Or she'll sick her Gryffindors on you."

"Oh, actually, I had something a bit more lethal than Gryffindors in mind," Hermione said, smiling.

"Really?" Ron asked. "And what would that be?"

She just kept smiling.

Surprisingly, it was Harry who figured it out first. "You wouldn't," he said, a bit of fear tinging his voice.

"_Avis Oppugno!"_ The birds flitted out of her wand, going straight for Harry and Ron. They scrambled, tripping over each other in their attempt to avoid the beaks of death. She laughed again.

At that moment, Hermione realized that she was no longer sad. That bit of depression she felt when she had thought about Draco the other day had disappeared.

As Ron tried to swat at the birds with a frying pan and Harry ran for his wand, Hermione reflected that it was good to have friends.

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><p>Draco sat at the bar, quietly nursing a drink. It was nothing when compared to firewhiskey, but the muggle drink did the job just as well.<p>

_It's funny,_ Draco thought as he observed the people around him: people at tables, people watching the football game between bouts of raucous laughter, with the occasional swear when the preferred team lost possession.

_For all our prestige, for all our wealth, it seems friends are the one thing Malfoys can't afford._ He thought back to his formative years, and realized that if he had ever had a friend, a real friend, it was was probably Blaise Zabini. But he lost that friendship the day he became a Death Eater, the day he was forced to follow in his father's footsteps. Zabini's family had been one of the few purebloods that had _not_ supported the Dark Lord, and he and Blaise have not spoken since the end of their sixth year, and the events that happened then.

As for the others, they had never truly been his friends. Pansy wanted him for his money, for his standing, and his father encouraged the relationship because she came from a wizarding family. Her presence was tolerated only with great effort on Draco's part. Her inane prattling, her horrid nickname for him, and her obscene attempts at physicality, though once appreciated, served only to anger him. If she had called him _Drakie_ one more time...

Crabbe and Goyle, Draco had known long before their first journey to Hogwarts. But they too, had been false friends. They proved it, acknowledged it themselves during the Battle at Hogwarts, when they had foolishly tried to capture Potter and his friends in the Room of Requirement.

_They were in the Room of Requirement. Potter was cornered; his friends, oblivious. Malfoy and Crabbe had gotten into an argument: Malfoy wanted the diadem, as it was obviously worth something to Potter, but Crabbe wanted only to curse, to maim._

"_Who cares what you think!" Crabbe shouted. "I don't take your orders anymore, Draco. You an' your dad are finished!" _

Draco cringed at the memory. He'd might as well have said outright; Crabbe had only been his friend, had only been content with Draco because of his father, because of what his father _was_. He didn't give a rat's ass about _him_. And Goyle was the same.

It was true that Draco had treated them like crap throughout their entire relationship, but he had genuinely considered them both friends. When Crabbe died, he had _felt_ it, felt the pain of his loss.

They, apparently, had never given him the same consideration.

In fact, the only people who ever seemed to have cared, the only people, outside of his mother, who showed any concern for him at all, had been his enemies.

Potter. Weasley. Granger. They saved his life twice in the final battle. The only kindness, the only overture of friendship, true friendship, had come from the people he was raised to hate.

And he threw it in their faces.

_It's just as well,_ Malfoy whispered in his head. _You don't deserve friends. There is no greater punishment for what you have done than to spend the rest of your days alone._

Draco stood and left the pub, his drink forgotten. It happened every time. The second he found some solace, some peace, the images came surging back to the forefront of his mind: Dumbledore falling from the highest tower at Hogwarts, Burbage's body being swallowed whole by Nagini...Granger's pain. He wanted to forget, to move on, but they continued to plague him, to dog his every step.

"That's because you're not _allowed _to forget, Draco," Malfoy sneered as he fell into step beside him. "Not you, the man who had the power to prevent everything, who could have, if he had had the strength, gone straight to the Order the moment the Dark Lord began to show interest in him.

"Never you, Draco."

"We don't all possess a lion's courage," Draco countered.

"House traits have nothing to do with it,snob. Look at Severus. _He _was Slytherin. _He _opposed the Dark Lord."

Draco cringed. His godfather had tried to protect him from the Dark Lord, had made the Unbreakable Vow to protect him. Agreeing to kill Dumbledore was nothing, he had already planned to do it, on Dumbledore's behalf, so that Draco's soul could stay intact, could stay whole. Snape had made the Vow for his mother, for _him. _In that one act, he had done more for Draco than his father ever had.

"Severus is dead," Draco said softly, wishing it were not true.

"Better to have died honourably, for the lives of others, than to live a coward."

"Great words," Draco observed. "Especially from a Malfoy. But that's all they are."

"That's all they are now," Malfoy countered. "Because you lacked the strength to act. Because even though you _knew_ it wasn't what you wanted, even though you _knew_ there were people who could help you, you did did nothing.

"You were too afraid of the Dark Lord to rebel openly, and too proud to go to the Order, who catered to half-breeds and mudbloods-"

"Do not use that word!"

"You were a coward!" Malfoy screamed back, and Draco staggered as blistering pain surged through his right arm. "Do not pretend that the word offends you, you pompous bastard. You've used it enough."

"Not... not in in years, " Draco panted out. It was almost midnight, and there were very few people about to notice him and his companion. Draco staggered into an alleyway, where he fell to his knees from the pain.

"No, not in years," Malfoy agreed contemptuously. "But your change of heart came too late; it doesn't matter anymore. _You_ don't matter anymore."

With that, Malfoy disappeared.

The pain subsided, but a burning sensation remained. Draco rolled up his sleeve, and his face paled.

His right forearm was bloody, and a word was branded into his flesh.

_Coward._


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry this took so long. My computer crashed and I had to write this up from memory. Please Review.**

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><p>Hermione drew her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat. It took her a moment to realize where she was.<p>

"I'm at Grimmauld Place," she whispered to herself. "I'm spending the rest of my summer holiday with Ron and Harry."

She gulped down the water she kept on the bedside table to soothe her sore throat, silently thanking Merlin that she had cast silencing charms on her room.

They didn't need to hear her screams.

Three years had gone by, and her nightmares had lessened, but that did not make them any less vivid, or any less terrifying on the nights they returned.

She dreamed of jettisons of colored light, of Voldemort chasing after her on a cloud of darkness, of men in dark robes and white masks, the deaths of Moody, Remus, Tonks, Dobby, and scores of others.

But there was one nightmare that persisted, one that haunted her above all the others, sent her reeling into realms of despair, as it had tonight: her torture at the hands of Bellatrix.

Hermione ran her hand over the scars, softly tracing the indentations; she could still feel the blade, the icy touch of metal as the tip danced along her arm, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She could still hear Bellatrix laughing at her pain.

She remembered Draco.

_Harry, in a fit of rage, had uttered Voldemort's name, activating the Taboo. Within seconds, they were surrounded by a group of Snatchers headed by the werewolf Greyback, one of the Dark Lord's deadliest enforcers._

_The Snatchers took them to Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters' base of operations, and Hermione waited fearfully as Draco approached them, encouraged by his overeager father, who was desperate to earn Voldemort's favor._

_It was the first time Hermione had seen Draco since their sixth year, and it pained her to see him so haggard, so pale...so __**lifeless**__._

_She waited with baited breath, fully expecting Draco to denounce them; he would finish his inspection of Harry's face (which she had thought to jinx prior to the Snatchers' arrival) and hand them over to his father._

_It would happen soon, she knew, as Harry's face was slowly morphing back to its normal state._

_But the moment never came. Draco had barely given Harry's face a glance before denying Greyback's claim. Even with prodding from Lucius, Draco never confirmed their identity; it was always, "It __**might**_

_be them," and "I don't know, __**maybe**__." _

_Draco had gone out of his way to protect them, and Hermione had no idea why. What did he gain by protecting them?_

_What had been the point? He might not have turned them in, but he had done nothing to help them. When Hermione was being tortured, he stood there and watched, stock still and impassive. Their eyes had found each other's for the briefest of moments. She silently pleaded with him, begged him to help her, to make the pain end... but his eyes offered nothing in return._

Hermione shook her head to clear it of her thoughts.

"_Lumos," _she muttered. After invoking a nonverbal levitation spell on her wand, Hermione took out her manuscript, dipped her quill in ink, and began writing by wandlight, her thoughts slowly turning away from Draco, the boy she had tried to forget the moment she met him, but could never seem to banish completely.

It was no use to dwell on someone for whom you would never be good enough.

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><p>"<em>Tergeo," <em>Draco muttered, watching as the blood slowly disappeared from the bandage covering his arm. He carefully rolled the sleeve down again. He would have to do something soon. The damn thing would not stop bleeding,no matter how many times he performed the healing charm. It wasn't as though he could stride into St. Mungo's and demand treatment: the whole of the wizarding world thought him dead, and he wanted to keep it that way.

He had no currency here. The Ministry of Magic had seized the Malfoy fortune after the Second Purification, and used it as reparations for the families of the Dark Lord's victims, so he couldn't even afford a bottle of dittany to avoid scarring.

And he was not going to his mother. _That_ was a conversation he wanted to avoid.

Draco heard someone chuckle behind him.

"Let it scar, Draco," Malfoy said. "That way, you'll have a mark to remind you of what you are."

Draco did not respond, did nothing to show his annoyance at Malfoy's words. Because he knew that Malfoy was right. The Dark Mark would always pain him, remind him of the suffering he endured at the Dark Lord's hands. But this new mark was different. Voldemort's mark would eventually fade, leaving nothing but a faint memory in its place. But _coward_ was seared onto his skin; it would stay with him forever. For as long as he lived, it would remind Draco of his _failings._

And that was much, much worse.

Draco checked his reflection in a nearby shop window, making sure his disillusionment charm was still in effect. This was his first foray into the wizarding world in three years, and it would not do to make a scene.

He walked along Diagon Alley, reveling it the memories it conjured. His Hogwarts letter. His first owl. Shopping for robes with his mother. All of them peaceful, all of them _happy_.

Draco scowled, his moment of serenity gone as he reached the turn that would take him into Knockturn Alley, where he hoped to find something to stem the bleeding, which had started _again_.

The memories that _this_ place conjured were not so happy.

Malfoy sighed contentedly. "It's like coming home, isn't it?"

"Shut it," Draco replied. And for once, Malfoy listened.

Just as he was about to turn into Knockturn Alley, Draco staggered backward as someone bumped into him.

Unbeknownst to Draco, the jolt had been enough to shatter his concentration...and his disillusionment charm.

Hermione gasped. She had been about to apologize to the stranger for bumping into him when she saw Draco materialize out of thin air.

Draco, for his part, had frozen, too lost within his own mind to care that he had just been discovered.

He was very far away.

_His father had summoned him. He made his way into the foyer to find Greyback and his Snatchers holding three people captive. He noticed Granger straight off, wishing he hadn't._

_Draco __**always **__noticed Hermione. It unnerved him, how easily she seemed to draw and keep his attention._

_His father was saying something, wanted him to do something._

_Draco studied the man he was sure was Potter, though his face had been oddly disfigured. Granger's doing, no doubt. She was highly intelligent for a mud-...for a muggle-born._

_He studied Potter's face intently, making sure he cast no glance in Granger's direction...or the Weasel's._

_His father was still prattling, prodding. He wanted an answer._

_Draco hated Potter. Everyone loved him because he was an orphan, because of that stupid scar. Everyone thought he was bloody amazing. Everything Draco worked for, he was simply given, yet he wanted __**none**__ of it._ _It angered Draco that he could throw it all away without a second thought. That he could __**act**__._

_Where Draco was taught to submit, Potter was taught to stand, and he hated him for it._

_This was his chance to end it all. To end __**him**__._

_Try though he might to push her from his mind, Draco was all too aware of Granger struggling beside Potter._

_Potter was her friend, and if he turned them in, she might hate him more than she already did. For reasons Draco refused to acknowledge, that thought hurt him a lot more than it should have..._

_Granger was screaming, tears streaming from her eyes as his aunt carved that horrid word into her flesh. Draco looked on, his face a perfect mask, revealing nothing of the turmoil he felt inside. He stood rigid, his muscles tensed. _

_His right hand gripped his wand, and it was steady. The other was in his pocket, clenching and unclenching._

_He could show nothing. He could __**do**__ nothing. To act was to sentence his parents to death. That was why Potter was free to fight; he had no one left to lose._

_Granger's eyes connected with his for a moment, silently pleading, asking for his help. It almost broke him._

_Almost._

"Move, idiot!" Malfoy yelled. Draco blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and disapparated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this took so long. Please Review**

Draco woke from his troubled dreams drenched in sweat. He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair to settle it.

"It never happened," Draco whispered to himself. "I'm still here. I'm still me."

"_Most of you, anyway."_

Draco ignored Malfoy's comment, still too caught up in his nightmare. As he rose from the bed, he caught sight of the _Daily Prophet_ on his bedside table, the cause for his turbulent dreams.

On the _Prophet's _front page, in bold lettering, the headline read: _Convicted Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, To Be Kissed._

His father had been able to escape prosecution and imprisonment after the First Purification because he'd claimed to have been under the Imperious Curse. He had no such excuse the second time around. Under the influence of veritaserum, Malfoy admitted to the Aurors questioning him that upon the Dark Lord's return, not only had he served willingly, but had always done so. He was now being punished, not only for the crimes he'd recently committed, but for his actions in the first war as well.

The Malfoy name meant nothing now. His mother, who never took the Dark Mark, or participated in either war, had reverted to using her maiden name. Draco had wondered, briefly as he read, if she would attend her husband's "indictment."

But none of this information had troubled him. It was what came _after_ all of that which had him reliving one of the darker moments of his life.

The story mentioned Dementors.

They had been won over by Voldemort during the Second Purification. He had promised them souls in exchange for their loyalty. When Riddle fell, they attempted to return to Azkaban.

The Order of the Phoenix was waiting for them.

Very few wizards were proficient enough in the arcane arts to cast a Patronus, but the Order members were, and were quickly able to subdue the Dementors.

From that point on, Azkaban has been used strictly to house the Dementors, its current inmates transferred to Nurmengard. The halls are patrolled by a specially selected group of Aurors and their Patronuses. It is rumored that Harry Potter himself trained them for the task.

Unspeakables made frequent visits to Azkaban, to try and learn what made Dementors tick. After months of such visits, they concocted a machine that could perform the Dementor's Kiss. _That_ was how they were going to suck out Lucius Malfoy's soul.

After he had read the article, Draco had wondered if, now that Dementors were no longer needed, if the Ministry would have them killed off. Then he wondered if a Dementor could actually _die._ He'd never heard of it happening.

Draco shuddered as he stepped into the shower, intending to wash the musk of the sweat off. He hadn't given the article much thought after he'd been done with it. He didn't like dwelling on his father.

But when he had gone to sleep that night, not too long ago, he was thrown back into that day.

_The Dark Lord had taken Azkaban. It had been all too easy to do so. There were very few human guards, and the Dementors had been expecting him. They had welcomed him._

_Draco walked beside the Dark Lord as he softly glided along the hallways, his Patronus lighting the way. The Dark Lord was unaffected by the Dementors' presence and had no need for the charm._

_But Draco did, and the small dragon guided him onward._

_The Dark Lord was not altogether dissatisfied with the Malfoy heir. Though he failed in his mission to assassinate Dumbledore, he had managed to disarm the old man, and succeeded in granting his Death Eaters access to Hogwarts and its grounds. The child's actions allowed him to take the school for his own. A wondrous victory._

_It was more than the boy's father had accomplished since his return to service, and the only reason the man still lived._

_The Dark Lord halted before Lucius' cell, and gave the Dementor on his left a nod. This one was the last of them. As Lucius joined the ranks of newly-liberated Death Eaters, the Dark Lord spoke to the Dementors in their own tongue, a series of hisses, not unlike Parseltongue, coupled with low growls. _

_The Dementors scattered then. As they moved from cell to cell, the screams began._

_As they rallied and took the souls of those the Dark Lord had not chosen, the familiar fear set over Draco, and his Patronus began to waver. _

_As the Dark Lord and his followers disapparated, Draco found that he could not move._

_He heard his father's voice in his head. Telling him that he wasn't good enough. That he was a disgrace. That he was not worthy of the name Malfoy. He remembered the torture he endured at his father's hands the night he failed to kill Dumbledore. He would carry the scars forever._

_The tiny dragon disappeared._

_They converged on him, each one swooping low, trying to be the one who caught him, who took from him the most precious thing he possessed._

_As his mind was bombarded by a slew of horrific memories, he tried in vain to conjure his Patronus; nothing but a faint light emerged from his wand, which quickly died away._

_No memory was coming to him. No happy thoughts. His life had been very bleak of late. His previous happy memory was no longer sufficient. He had to think harder, dig deeper._

_He had to stop pretending._

_He thought of Granger, and the light that came forth from his wand was so powerful that it repelled all the Dementors away from him. As he turned and disapparated, he realized something._

_His Patronus had changed._

"_Expecto Patronum," _Draco murmured, and watched as the phoenix burst forth from his wand and flew around his head, brightening the room.

"I'm still here," Draco said to himself again. "I'm still here."

"_But you don't deserve to be."_

* * *

><p>Witches and wizards nodded greetings to Hermione as they filed into the viewing room. She, Ron, and Harry, "The Golden Trio," as the <em>Prophet<em> had dubbed them, had been among the first to be seated. It was no surprise that they were in attendance. After all, hadn't they been held captive in the man's home during the war? Hadn't he tried to kill them on various occasions?

They had every right to attend, they were _expected_ to attend Malfoy's demise.

Lucius, for his his part, was seated on the other side of the glass. Though his clothes and hair were in disarray and his hands and feet bound by shackles, he sat straight, his head high, a small sneer on his lips. Ever the aristocrat.

Arrogant until the very end.

As she looked around the room, she noticed that Narcissa was not there, and thought it strange. From what she had read, Narcissa had been acquitted because she had never actually participated in Death Eater activities. She was living with her sister and nephew now. She and Harry got on quite well, connected as they were by little Teddy Lupin.

Hermione looked over at Harry now. Seated on her left, he kept fidgeting in his seat, his fingers thrumming against his leg. She knew that this made him uncomfortable. After Voldemort fell, he had testified on the Malfoys' behalf. He tried to get them acquitted, on the basis that they served Voldemort only because they feared for their lives.

The defense worked for Narcissa and Draco, whose memory evidence clearly showed their reluctance.

But not for Lucius. _His_ memories were of a different kind.

That was Harry's strength. Or his weakness, as some would argue. He saw the good in everyone. He believed that everyone deserved a chance to come back from the brink, to redeem themselves.

That was reason why now, he felt nothing but pity, and remorse, for the man in front of him.

Hermione took his hand and squeezed it. Harry looked over at her and gave her a small smile. As she looked back at Lucius through the one-way glass, the latter glaring at the Unspeakables who were busy setting up the machine that would reap his soul, she found her thoughts turning to the man's son.

Draco.

He wasn't there either.

She had been shocked, when she had bumped into him in Diagon Alley that day. She had been on her way to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to visit George, minding her own business, when she seemed to have rammed into the air itself.

Imagine her surprise when Draco Malfoy materialized out of that air. At first, she thought she was going crazy. He couldn't be standing in front of her. Draco was dead. She had to be losing her mind. Hadn't she been thinking about him a few days earlier? And now she was imagining him.

But she wasn't.

Because Hermione wasn't the only person to have seen him.

He had simply stood there, with the strangest expression, for twenty seconds or so, as passerby gasped and pointed.

He stood stock still, until someone shouted, "Move, idiot!" and he disapparated.

Hermione had thought his reappearance would make the news, but it didn't. On the contrary, any and all rumors pertaining to his resurfacing had been immediately suppressed by the Ministry.

Hermione had thought that odd, so she asked Kingsley about it. He would neither confirm nor deny involvement, which was really all the answer she needed.

Draco didn't die after the war ended. He went into hiding, and the Ministry helped him do it.

But Hermione had no idea as to why.

She sighed. Harry looked at her funny, but didn't comment. Ron didn't notice.

As the Unspeakables began to file out of the room (the machine would affect any in the immediate vicinity), Hermione noticed that one of them was trembling slightly. Not many had ever seen Unspeakables before, and it was said that they were all manner of strange, but Hermione was the brightest witch of her age; she knew what the trembling meant.

Mumbling to Harry and Ron that she needed to use the loo, Hermione stood and followed the Unspeakables out.

The trembling one was in the rear of the group, and as they continued onward, he veered off a side passage. Hermione followed.

The trembling became more severe, enough to be classified as convulsions. The man doubled over in pain, a strangled cry escaping his lips.

As he stood, the man seemed to have grown a few inches, and his hair, before a light brown, was now pale blond.

Hermione acted on instinct. _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

The man went rigid and stood frozen, unmoving.

Hermione walked over to him, wand in hand, and gasped as she stared into the face of Draco Malfoy.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione couldn't believe her eyes. Standing before her, frozen stiff by her spell, was none other than Draco Malfoy, the man everyone thought was dead.

But now that she had him, Hermione had no idea what to do with him; she had acted completely on impulse, driven by the need to satisfy that nagging curiosity that had plagued her mind since that day in Diagon Alley, to make sure it was really him.

But now Hermione was at an impasse. Now that he was in front of her, she had no idea what to say.

Well, that wasn't really true.

She had _many_ things to say to this man, who had who had hurt and insulted her all through their schooling; who had, when the time came, been unable to give her over to the Dark Lord.

She had many things to say, to ask, and had trouble picking just one.

Draco, for his part, had thrown off her spell some time ago, and was now merely waiting. For what, he didn't know. Having come to terms with his thoughts regarding her some time ago, he knew only that he wanted this encounter to be different than their previous one in London.

He had run from her then, out of habit and out of fear.

But he wasn't going to do that now.

For the first time in three years, Draco let his trademark smirk come onto his face.

Lifting an eyebrow, he asked, "Are you done staring, Granger? I know I'm handsome, but this is bordering on rudeness."

He received no answer, she seemed to be in shock, which was understandable, as everyone in wizarding England still believed he was dead.

"Have I rendered the great Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of our age, speechless? If only a reporter for the _Prophet_ were here to witness it. Then again, I generally have that effect on women."

_That _got Hermione's attention. "I see you're still a right foul git, Malfoy."

"I try."

"How did you break the spell?"

"Seriously? We learned that in our _first year_, Granger. I've had worse spells than _Petrificus Totalus _thrown at me since then. I would have thought you'd use _Stupefy,_ or something stronger."

"I wasn't really thinking," Hermione admitted, surprised by the fact that she was having a civil conversation with _Draco Malfoy_, of all people. "I've brewed and taken Polyjuice Potion before, so I know its effects. When I saw trembling, I knew."

"And you just _had_ to investigate," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Ever a Gryffindor."

They lapsed into silence then, neither knowing what to say to the other. It was hard to forget the years of intense dislike between them, no matter how much each might wish (though unknown to each other) that they did not exist.

Hermione was the first to speak. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Can't tell you. Technically, I shouldn't even be _speaking_ to you. I just came to-to...," he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"To say good-bye," Hermione finished for him softly.

Draco nodded. "The man was a bastard, but he was still my father."

The silence came again, and it was noticeably more awkward. Draco knew she bore no great love for his father: he had tried to kill her many times during the war, and she had been tortured under his roof.

Conversely, she probably felt no great love towards _him_ either. He had let her get tortured by his aunt, and he had made her life hell at Hogwarts.

Just what did you _say_ to someone who you had pretended to hate all of your life, and who hated you because of it?

Draco made to walk away, but she grabbed his right arm before he could get very far.

The contact sent lances of pain through him, and he stiffened, stifling a hiss.

Hermione noticed anyway. "Are you hurt?" she asked quickly.

Her tone surprised Draco. She sounded almost...worried. For _him._ But that couldn't be.

That could _never_ be.

She was trying to roll up his sleeve, and he roughly pulled himself out of her grasp.

"You should get back to Potter and the Weasel, before they decide to send out a search party for you."

Hermione frowned. She knew he was avoiding the question, but he also had a point: she had been gone too long for Harry and Ron to keep thinking she had gone to the restroom.

"_Aww, is the poor baby frightened?"_ Malfoy asked suddenly. _"Go on and show her, Draco! Let her see. Let the mudblood know what kind of man you are."_

"I told you to stop using that word!" Draco growled. He then looked to Hermione, his face unreadable.

It took all the willpower Hermione possessed not to scream. As it was, she now had her wand pointed at the pair of them.

Because now, there were _two_ Dracos.

"What the hell!" she exclaimed. "Why are there two of you!" For the briefest of moments, Hermione was baffled, and a little afraid.

"You can see him?" Draco asked, surprised. No one had been able to do that before.

"Of course I can see him, he's standing right next to you!"

Draco shook his head. "Malfoy has been with me for almost four years now, ever since the war ended. _No one _ has ever been able to see him, except you."

Malfoy draped an arm over his twin. "_Dray and I are the best of pals._"

"What is he?" Hermione asked, curious despite herself. She was aware that this could all be a trick, some sick ploy to get at her, Harry, and Ron. You never knew what Draco was thinking. But for some reason, she felt no malice from him.

"He's my punishment," Draco replied. "He's here to make sure I never forget; he's my curse until I die."

"_You make me sound so bad, Dray, but we both know I'm not as dark as you."_

Draco ignored his clone. He was about to disapparate when Hermione stopped him again.

This entire encounter had been surreal, but she didn't know if they would ever see each other again, and she needed to know.

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

She didn't elaborate, but Draco supposed she didn't need to.

He sighed. "When I faced Dumbledore in the Astronomy Tower, I learned that I didn't have it in me to kill. I never_ would _kill, if I could help it. When you were brought to the manor, I knew that to identify you would be to sentence you. I would have killed you as surely as the Dark Lord would have."

He stopped, wondering if he should continue. _To hell with it._

"But it was more than that. It was more than the fact that I didn't want your death death on my conscience.

"I didn't want you there at all. I wanted you gone, miles away, _countries_ away. I didn't want you to die, because I couldn't bear the thought of your death."

And with that, Draco disapparated.


End file.
